


This is Why We Don't Ask Logan Rodriguez For Help

by EyePencils



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27806206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyePencils/pseuds/EyePencils
Summary: Bevan Wise, Wizard, wanted to ask Logan Rodriguez, Druid and Seer, about some insight heading into the next season.Bevan immediately regretted this decision.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	This is Why We Don't Ask Logan Rodriguez For Help

Two old men sit in a warmly lit room grown into the tangled roots of a massive tree. Little orange wisp-like beings dance along the shelves and across the unoccupied furniture, their faint giggles all but drowned out by the incessant droning of a ticking clock, somewhere in the depths of the tree. There is a red string of yarn that hangs haphazardly across the circumference of the room, before disappearing into the floorboards below- Strangely enough, the string naturally splinters off into other directions as it scales the wall. Along that string and its splitting branches are photos and newspaper clippings -- some detailing or capturing completely conflicting events. The wisps seem to gather around those split moments, examining the details of each. The room was, in all honesty, a mess - But that mess only seemed to bother one of the old men sitting in it. The other was completely unfazed.

The first old man wears robes decorated in starlight. The wide-brimmed hat sitting on his head has a visible history of usage, with sewn patches and singed marks on it ranging back to what must have been the man’s childhood. He has a silver-white beard that hides his neck, and a worn and weathered face full of wrinkles. A blue-lens pince-nez sits on his nose that he stares through towards the man before him. His knobbly hands are folded in front of him, though he wrings them occasionally as he stares sternly at his much older counterpart.

The second man is far more rugged in appearance. He lacks the grace and distinguishing clothing that his compatriot wears, instead choosing to drape himself in a muddy brown burlap-like robe, harboring what appeared to be moss. A simple hood is draped over his straggly, unkempt grey hair, and a wild, bushy beard covered most of his face. The wrinkles on that face were deep enough to run rivers through them, and between his mountainous nose sat two vacant, half-lidded eyes with pitch-black sclera and pupils. He is slumped in his seat, and for all intents and purposes he looked positively dead -- except for the occasional breath taken between the long seconds of silence. His gnarled hands grip the arms of his chair, with an equally gnarled staff leaning against his right side.

"Logan. Are you going to tell me what you saw?" The well-kempt wizard addresses the druid. His expression is tense, contrasting the slow smile that splits across the druid named Logan's face.

"Little Bevan," he rasps, his head rising slowly to fix that vacant stare on the wizard. "You know that it is not the business of," He takes in a loud, rattling breath - the creak of old wood resounds from within his chest, "- Mortals to be privy to Time's inexorable, infinitesimal march. It will be something you may," another pause for a breath, during which Logan raises a hand to twist in a circle for emphasis, "- Learn in your travails as you follow Fate's guidance."

The Wizard stares flatly at the Druid, and he leans back in his own chair. He rests his chin on one fist, tilting his head to the side.

"Wrong year, Logan."

The druid blinks slowly, and a subtle frown crosses his face.

"What?" He asks, in a tone utterly betraying the mystery he was weaving not a minute ago.

"Wrong year. You said that 12 years ago. And also 40 years ago. I didn't correct you last time because I wasn't sure, but that was definitely the exact words you said to me when I joined the Yosemite Slams as a spry lad." Bevan dryly explains.

Logan pauses. His chin quivers as he gauges his own memory. At long last, he breaks into a chuckle.

"And which timeline is this?"

Bevan lets out a weary groan.

"Annie dead, Hall Stars won, Coin took control." He states matter-of-factly, but Logan's expression remains unsure. Bevan rolls his eyes. "Also, uhhh... Sutton ate Chorby's bat after refusing to answer ‘truth’ on a truth or dare and got sick. Does that help?"

Logan's furrowed brow breaks into wide-eyed recognition. The dark void of his eye sockets takes in the light around him, and he turns in his seat to follow the red string. His search stops at a newspaper clipping from the Yellowstone Inquiry, with the headline: "SUTTON IN A PICKLE -- ALLEGATIONS OF FOOD POISONING ABOUND". He nods knowingly. Bevan was still not sure how, or why that specific event differentiated timelines, but he wasn’t about to pry. It was quite literally not his business.

"I suppose it would not hurt," another deep breath, "- were I to tell you what comes next. You have no control in what is to come, after all."

The whimsical air of the druid fails to downplay the gravity of his words, and Bevan squeezes his hands together.

"What do you mean by that?" He asks. But Logan sadly shakes his head.

"The script has been written, and all the stage's players have," another breath. Logan raises his hand to dance it through the air. A number of wisps gather to follow his lead, chittering and giggling around his fingers. "- dedicated themselves to their roles. Our Yellowstones are safe, Young Bevan, both your team, and my home. Play will continue," He holds his palm steady to let the wisps land on his palm and dance in a circle, hand in hand. "- As Fate weaves it's incalculable tapestry. This as much, I can tell you. Our role is a minor one in this thread, but you need not worry yourself. It is not your role alone to bear.”

Bevan narrows his eyes to glare at the Druid. As ever, utterly incomprehensible. The one way someone who could see all of time’s twists and turns could be any worse, was if they really loved theatre. Logan was living evidence of that. Bevan removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“OK. So, before you continue-” Bevan adjusts his posture and points his whole hand at Logan. “- I just need to make sure. Is this ‘thread’ consequential in the slightest? Like, does it mean anything? Will lives be lost? Do we win? Are we going to need to get another batter?”

His questions receive only a slow shake of Logan’s head.

“Everything has consequences, Young Bevan. And, some may say,” He straightens his back mid-breath. “- That nothing has meaning. And in a way, a life will be lost." The unhelpfulness of the answer threatens to give Bevan a migraine. "Yet what is this talk about winning?" Logan grins. "I thought your only concern was survival, not those,” He gestures vaguely. “- Idle fancies?”

“I’m just asking for the others’ sake, is all.” Bevan mumbles. There’s a distinct shade of pink in his cheeks as he turns away. Logan continues.

“Then, yes. In a way, the team will ‘Win’. There will be much to celebrate. And, the instrument of fate that I am,” Logan’s head lulls to the side. “I will play my role to the fullest to ensure that moment comes. To ensure a Brilliant Sun shines on this League.” Bevan squints. Logan shrugs, before offering an apologetic smile to the wizard.

“... You know I cannot change much, Bevan. I am an observer. And the game I play is far more delicate, than,” He winces as he rises to his feet with the help of his cane. “- winning or losing on the diamond. But know, that I am doing my best. For you, and the team.” Bevan watches as Logan hobbles his way over to the long red yarn making its way around the room. It's now that realization dawns on Bevan. Logan’s exaggerated limp. His whimsical theatrics. The calculated breaths between each sentence...

_Oh no. Logan was monologuing again._

The druid follows where the string's path branched from, and extends it an extra meter with casual grace. 

_“No calloused devil need remind me of my shortcomings.  
For pitching is the heel I never sought to bathe in the River Styx--  
What shame should I hold with that? Yet she forgets my qualities.  
For I am a rare and excellent thespian,  
and rarer still, well-versed in prophecies.  
A talent very few can claim.”_

The wisps circle Logan’s head, and hang off his shoulders. They play in the overgrowth of moss on his back. 

_“My choices are limited, though my moves are calculated.  
It may seem infinitely minute through the eyes of common mortals,"_

Logan covers his face with a hand, leaning heavily on his cane in the other. 

_"- that live in the span of a blink beneath the cosmic forces that be…  
But make no mistake, what I can do has the capacity to move mountains."_

He shakes his head idly, as he lifts his gaze towards the middle distance. 

_"The unfortunate truth is, no one can control fate.  
They’re only capable of nudging it along,"_

Logan gently swats his hand through the air, and the breeze causes any floating wisps to tumble uncontrollably. 

_"- In the direction they hope, yet often err away.  
But by mistake or by design, it’s all at the mercy,  
Of vexatious Humanity, and Fortune's cruelest whims."_

The wisps watch with rapt attention. Bevan does not share the entities’ interest in Logan’s theatrics.

_"Everything I work towards,  
Is of a grand design far older than me.  
And with every gentle push and pull,”_

Logan turns once more from his wall to face Bevan, a faint glimmer of silver occupying his pitch-black eyes. 

_“I steer us ever closer to Fate's protective hold.  
A diviner for Her comfort from this strife.  
So we may see through any bloody storm --  
unscathed. You have my word, Bevan.  
And a Druid’s word is his life."_

Logan offers an awkward half bow at the end of his dramatic speech, prompting every wisp in the room to join in a susurration of adoration and surprise. Some clap. Some lean into Logan’s ear to whisper something to him. Everyone is absolutely impressed… Except Bevan.

The Wizard replies to Logan’s performance with all the incredulity he can muster. He tuts, then half-whispers,

“... Why are you _like_ this?”

Logan smirks and limps closer to the Wizard. He once more dons the air of the doddering old man, unsure even when he even was. Yet there was still that twinkle in his eye, like silver stars in a black canvas. He places a hand on Bevan’s shoulder.

“If I wasn’t- Well. That wouldn’t be very fun for anyone, now would it?”

The two lock eyes, and something inside Bevan finally concedes. He gently removes Logan’s hand from his shoulder and heads for the door. He opens it, stops in the doorway, and turns to the Druid.

“Just show up to practice. Just because you know how to see the future doesn’t mean you’re exempt from learning how to pitch a ball.”

Slam! Bevan closes the door behind him, leaving Old Man Logan alone in his home. The wisps continue their dancing through the air, their attention once more on their host.

_“Drat.”_ He hisses. 


End file.
